


With a Smile and a Song

by little_ogre, squarebosk



Category: The Magnificent Seven (2016)
Genre: Anachronisms, Fairy Tales, M/M, Mild Gore, Owls, Period-Typical Racism, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-18
Updated: 2019-08-18
Packaged: 2020-09-06 15:42:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20293924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/little_ogre/pseuds/little_ogre, https://archiveofourown.org/users/squarebosk/pseuds/squarebosk
Summary: Goodnight is a Disney Princess!Billy has never met anyone who talks so much to his horse, talks as if he expects and answer, or even takes its opinions into account. He’ll interrupt himself with little phrases such as “Oh what’s that girl? and then say flat out ridiculous things like: Claire de Lune says the road is muddy up ahead and she dislikes getting her feet wet, so we’re riding up on the ridge. And then they do, as if the horse has somehow decided.





	With a Smile and a Song

**Author's Note:**

> A huge thank you to squarebosk for the absolutely amazing art and for coming up with this delightful premise, and to the mods for the Mag7 RBB for organising all this. I've had so much fun participating.

Billy meets Goodnight in a bar. He’s a little drunk, a lot lonely, and man to befriend. 

He is an odd fish, no doubt about it, well dressed and talking like a gentleman but with dusty boots and calloused hands. He is a famous sharpshooter but Billy rides with him for two months before he ever sees him shoot that rifle he’s never without.

Billy has never met anyone who talks so much to his horse, talks as if he expects and answer, or even takes its opinions into account. He’ll interrupt himself with little phrases such as “Oh what’s that girl? and then say flat out ridiculous things like: _Claire de Lune _says the road is muddy up ahead and she dislikes getting her feet wet, so we’re riding up on the ridge. And then they do, as if the horse has somehow decided.

When he’s not talking he’s singing, which would be annoying on its own, but hearing somebody sing “Tennessee Stud” or “Brown Jug” in close harmony with a drilling bluebird is just downright unsettling. Birds are forever hopping about their campsites ready to lend a shrill whistle to any chorus. Once Billy wakes up and there is a big fuckoff vulture by their campsite making the most unholy racket.

The weather also seems to follow Goody’s moods, of which there are plenty. When he's sad it's raining, and to be honest, he's sad pretty often. Nevermind that they are in the desert, if Goody’s sad, it rains. When he talks about his past there are dry thunderstorms in the distance, the light splitting the night in half and painting dramatic shadows on Goodnight's face, the dry hot wind whipping Billy’s hair about his face. When Billy talked about _his_ past there wasn’t even as much as a little bang, even when he told Goodnight about his mother dying on the ship to America, about being an assassin, working for the Chinese cartels in San Francisco. It didn’t even become slightly overcast, much to Billy’s disappointment,

“We’re getting you a bath in the next town,” Goodnight says one night. “And I’m boiling your clothes tomorrow.”

“Why?” Billy asks, and Goody shrugs.

“I'm sorry to say it _mon beau ami_, but you have fleas.”

Billy gives him a long steady look, _he_ hasn’t noticed anything. And he hates Goody calling him things in French he can’t understand.

“How the fuck do you know?”

“They told me so, damn chattersome bunch,” Goodnight says with an unsteady grin and takes a deep swig from his flask. 

(He does boil Billy’s clothes the next day, while Billy sits next to the fire wrapped in a blanket with nothing on but his boots and hat, and then he makes Billy wash his hair with vinegar and salt and goddamn him if it doesn’t turn out that he’s right after all.)

Goodnight is thoughtlessly kind to animals,in a way that sometimes nearly turns Billy’s stomach. Being far too familiar with man’s cruelty to man, it seems to him a mockery to lavish kindness on beasts; in one town Goodnight almost absently rescues a sack full of kittens from a water barrel. He just reaches in and fishes it out, as if he knew it be there, though Billy will never understand how a man with hearing ruined by artillery fire and so lost in his own head he can’t hear Billy talk most of the time, could have heard their near silent mewling. 

He carries them in his saddlebag, or in the crook of his arm and they all sleep in his hat for a week, Goodnight feeding them watered-down milk in towns and butter on the trail, and washes them with rags like a cat mama while he croons in thick French.

Billy will never forget the double take the bartender does when Goody orders whiskey with two little grey whippersnappers on his shoulders, and one in his coat pocket, hissing at him like miniatures gargoyles with their bottle brush tails, pin-sharp white teeth and blue eyes. He has to admit he has never been as popular with the saloon girls before, all of them flocked at their table, Billy and Goodnight nearly smothered in skirt edges and lace and smooth, round arms as they lift the kittens and coo, passing them around to each other and chatter, scratching their fuzzy little ears with slim elegant fingers, Billy even has one girl perching in his lap just so she can fit in the throng. In the end Goodnight gifts one of the kittens to a red-headed girl who professes herself deadly afraid of rats and receives a long,smacking kiss in exchange, and she leads all the other girls off like the pied piper followed by corsets and bustles. Goodnight looks a little stunned as she walks off, his lower lip pink and slack and his eyes big but he makes no move to get to know her better, only shakes his head and drains his glass, the tips of his ears red. For one moment Billy can’t look away and feels something tug in his mouth like hunger, like a phantom sensation before the sting of whiskey burns it away.

Goodnight heads to the general store after that and trades the two remaining kitties for provisions, handing back the money Billy’s given him. These days Billy doesn’t even bother with trying to go in himself. One of the advantages of travelling with a white companion is being turned away in a lot less places. He sleeps in a bed in the hotels and Goodnight keeps him employed and plenty flush for once, the tobacco tin in the bottom of his bag filling up with cash. What he does for Goodnight is more complicated but Billy thinks talking to somebody who doesn’t have four legs and covered with fur goes a long way.

Sometimes Billy manages to convince himself there is nothing unusual about Goodnight at all, apart from his ability to hit bullseye when he’s three sheets to the wind. That he’s just a man a little ruined from the war, and then something happens to throw him off.

He returns to their shared room from a visit to the outhouse to hear a low voice coming from their room and finds Goody scrambling from his knees, as if he’d been saying his evening prayers, and a little tail scurrying away in the corner, and Billy chooses to believe, despite all the evidence to the contrary that he was in fact not conversing with a mouse. After this he imagines that he sometimes sees Goody’s breast pocket move, as if he’s carrying something in there, something small and alive.

In January, nearly six months together, they ford a river in the north of Texas, meeting a covered wagon handled by a single woman with three little pale faces peeking out through the canvas. The woman is pregnant, her dress as swelling as the canvas around the wagon. It’s icy cold with a chill wind whipping through the bare river valley and in the middle of the ford the wind catches the wagon like a sail, the wheels lodging on the uneven bottom.

Goodnight looks at Billy who nods, but lets Goody do the talking, keeping his own head down and turned away, letting the brim of his hat shield his eyes and black hair. He ends up with a little boy in front of him in the saddle and Goodnight takes the two little girls to shore. The boy stares at him with eyes round as pennies and Billy resists the urge to bare his teeth just to fuck with him.They leave the kids on the banks with one of their blankets and return to the water to help the woman. Their horses are not cart horses and are ill-suited for the task but finally they manage to pull the wagon free. Billy is wet to the knees and he and his horse have spent an hour in the water but there is no good place for a camp and they are forced to continue, going as gentle as they can, the horses hoofs’ ringing on the near frozen ground.

Two days later Billy is settling the Claire de Lune and Enid (why her name is Enid is beyond Billy but Goodnight insists) for the night and frowns, Enid is limping on her back hind leg and inspection reveals a deep crack in her hoof and an abscess. Goodnight doctors her as well as he might by sealing the crack with tar and tying sack cloth around the hoof, like a makeshift sock. Billy doubles up with Goodnight on Claire, as they head for the nearest settlement. Ideally there should be no weight on Enid at all but Goody’s horse can’t carry both of them and the gear so there is nothing for it. In the icy weather it’s nice to have another body close and in spite of the grim situation Billy enjoys the small warmth they cultivate between his chest and Goody’s back, and warming his hands under the edge of Goody’s jacket.

The farrier in the little dirt scratch town frowns and claws at his hair, hemming and hawing over the hoof. 

“‘S cracked all right,” he says, and Billy fights the urge to roll his eyes. “Now we can drain the abscess here and I can balance the foot but what she really needs is rest and regular treatment. No weight on her.”

Billy sighs, this little settlement can’t even be called a one horse town, probably because the horse got depressed and died. Its flat all over, with a general store and a saloon, the other houses nothing but canvas on wooden structures. Only bushy bearded homesteaders trying to scratch a living out of the soil, spending the winter in town rather than trying to ride it out on the homestead.

The abscess is filled with dark, smelly goo and it takes a while to make sure it will drain properly, Enid fussing and pulling the leg away and meanwhile Goody makes the rounds. When Billy looks up he finds Goody flamboyantly leaning against the porch at the saloon, before throwing his cigarette away with a decisive flick of his wrist before sauntering over to Billy one hand on his hip, and Billy, for some reason, can't tear his eyes away. 

“Howdy stranger,” Goody says with a wink, and unaccountably Billy finds his throat dry and face hot. He makes a _tsk_ noise and looks away, not really in the mood for Goody’s antics. 

“So, I've had a talk with the local law here, turns out a bunch of farmers tried homesteading around here but gave up. Too many raids and outlaws lately and reparations coming, so there should be at least one or two abandoned cabins around. Nothing fancy but it would do to wait out the hoof.”

Billy is surprised, he’d not really thought Goody would ride off without him, but he never really assumed he would stay either, and not without any discussion.

They find an abandoned log cabin a couple of miles out of town. A settlers homestead left to the elements, its boarded up and empty but neat and sound, a fireplace and chimney bricked from river stones and an unstrung bed frame in the corner, even a rough hewn table and chairs. The cabin is in a little dell, protected from the winds on both sides, with a faint trodden path leading down into a river, overgrown with brambles and tickets. There is dug well with clean water and a bit of game in the area. The river valley is full of delicate deers and long eared prairie bunnies, skinny as they are in the winter months. It will do for a month or two for two men not trying to make a living from the soil and used to sleeping on the cold hard ground. And its comfortably far away from town to protect them from any nosy neighbours.

Billy goes out hunting comes back to find Goodnight scrubbing the floor with sand, a chorus of birds singing on the windowsill. He has sieved and boiled the ashes from the fire with fat, making soap, hauled water as well as fine-silted sand from the river and scrubs and sands the floor, leaving it gleaming white and crunchy underfoot. He even makes a funny fish-bone pattern around the threshold, wearing a burlap sack as an apron and humming under his breath, cigarette clamped to the corner of his mouth. 

“Why the hell are you doing this?” Billy asks and Goody smiles, crooked, a bit haunted and shy.

“It soothes my soul Billy-goat, it soothes my soul.”

“If you call me Billy-goat again, I’ll nail you to the wall,” he says calmly patting his knives and Goody’s turns his head away. For a hallucinatory moment Billy thinks he hears him murmur: “You can nail me _anytime_” but that can’t be right.

As soon as they are settled in birds are around the house at all hours, tweeting and chirping. Once, Billy swears he saw a little brown sparrow drop a packet of rolling paper into Goodnight’s outstretched hand, when he’s been complaining about being fresh out of papers for his smokes, but in the end, the birds are not as bad as the raccoons.

Goody washes their clothes and blankets by the river and when Billy comes down to give him his coffee there is a family of raccoons helping him wash, the young raccoons are adorably chasing the bubbles. Goody is singing some dreadful song about a ship called Venus and the first time Billy heard him sing that he was sure his ears would shrivel and fall off, and his mama raise from her watery grave to berate him for the sheer filth of it. Goody seems to relish in making up new and dirtier verses and Billy has never been so thankful for his self control keeping him from blushing and wincing. It somehow makes matters worse that Goodnight is cheerfully sighing about “friggin in the rigging” with a chorus of bluebirds swaying to the melody and in front of what's clearly mixed company, even if that mixed company consists of Billy and a family of raccoons (some of those raccoons are looking pretty young, is all). Previously Billy has only ever had one encounter with raccoons, and then they stole his dinner and bit him, and he was lucky not to end up with rabies. Not a single one of them used their tail on the scrubbing board to help him clean his spare shirt.

“How do you even _know_ about this stuff?” he asks in exasperation when Goodnight starts darning socks. Most men Billy has met knows how to sew a button and wash a pan if pressed, but none of them has ever mended their own shirts with tiny dainty stitches or darned socks as good as new.

Goody sighed. “Well, my _maman_ she died pretty early, while I was still in skirts, and my daddy, he weren't a man to be alone. He remarried and this new lady, my stepmother, she didn't like me too much.” He shrugs, “My older brothers they were both in school, I was the only one at home so as much as she could she made sure my nanny kept me out of sight downstairs. Learnt a lot about cleaning and washing before I ever learnt my ABCs.”

“With the slaves?” Billy asked, still very unsure how to feel about that part of Goodnight’s past and Goody shook his head ruefully.

“Well, yes. we had a white Nanny though and a white cook too, but who do you suppose does the rearing of white kids in the south? Ain't their parents that's for sure. Ain’t them that scrubs the floors either. Was my uncle who had the plantation, outside of town, my daddy he was just a city dilettante. He was a lawyer but I don’t think he ever did much lawyering. ”

“And your family had…? Billy asked, unsure what to say and Goody sighed, pulling in the smoke and breathing it out again in blue, curling wreaths.

“Sam, my friend Sam, who pulled me out of a fight I would’ve gotten beat to death in if he hadn’t. He always said war was over. I asked him about it once, and only once, how he could be friends with me, knowing I had kept his kind as property, and you know what he said?”

He peered at Billy through the smoke.

“He said: “You think because of who I am I can say it’s all right? That I forgive you? It ain’t me that can give you absolution for that,” he said. “Ain’t nobody who can. War’s over, that’s all I know, for righteous and unrighteous alike, and there’s nothing to do but learn how to live with it. For some things there can be no forgiving.” And I reckon he was right about that. There can be no forgiving, you just have to trust God to tally the difference in the end.”

“You don’t believe in God,” Billy says, he knows that much. He doesn’t think Goodnight believes in much of anything. Goodnight looks down at the heel he’s mending, darning it neat and even against the makeshift darning mushroom Billy made for him.

“I believe there’ll be a reckoning,” he says at last. “I believe that with all my soul.”

Still, as fine company as Goodnight turns out to be and as much as Billy appreciates having whole socks, the entire animal thing remains disconcerting. And Billy has no idea how to bring it up. What can he even say; excuse me, but what is going on with all the animals? Is this normal? Is this just a white thing and I never got to know anyone of them well enough to notice? Yesterday a great big fucking _grackle_ helped you with dinner. Dinner was baked beans and cornbread with ashes in it because you kept smoking over the pan, but still, a grackle helped you to make a decorative pattern on the edge, and then I ate it. The pie that is, not the bird.

However what keeps catching Billy off guard is how _nice_ it is wintering in the cabin with Goody. They eat together over the table in the evenings, beans and salt pork and cornbread, Goody telling tall tales and gesturing with the cutlery and Billy can talk and laugh, not worried about remaining inscrutable as a defense against the world. 

They hunt together and for all that Goody talks he can be quiet too, a warm breathing presence by Billy’s side. He likes watching Billy practice with his knives, and challenges him to new feats of accuracy. Being a sharp-shooter Goody can understand that compulsion of aiming at the same target, ten times, twenty, fifty until its a muscle memory, until nothing else in the world exists. Billy finds he had as good incentive for learning as Goody’s lazy drawl of “Bet you you can’t…”

He sleeps next to Billy in the re-strung bed frame, furnished with abandoned hay from the outbuilding and their own blankets, and its big enough to fit them both comfortably. Goody is warm and lax in a way that is beginning to grow familiar and nonthreatening. And Billy finds he even likes how Goody smells, the musty smell of his hair, mixed with tobacco and shaving soap. In the evenings they have the fire going, Billy mending tack or whittling and Goody reading out loud from a newspaper or one of his books and it’s good, easy and undemanding in a way life had not been for Billy in a long time. 

Their domesticity might be unsought for but it’s strangely relaxing, Billy has always been particular about his hair and clothes and now he finds that the clean scrubbed cabin and well aired bedclothes comforting. Goody keeps surprising him, doing little unexpected things, like baking hard brown biscuits of bacon fat and oats and they are better than anything Billy has eaten in ages, salty and crackly.

He thinks he might have gotten used to Goody’s eccentricities, until he runs up against new ones.

Goody burns his fingers on the fire one evening and swears a blue streak in enviably seamless French and English and Billy watches in horror as something starts to move in his breast pocket and a little brown mouse scampers up to his shoulder, sharply chattering in a high pitched, deeply displeased tone.

It turns out Goody keeps a mouse in his pocket, as if it was an entirely normal thing. A mouse, which have strongly expressed Opinions on swearing. And drinking. And smoking in the house. 

Goody sheepishly admits she has been travelling with them for some time but he has been hiding it from Billy, not wanting to spook him with an unusual pet.

And the mouse itself is quite unusual. She squeaks loudly every time Billy forgets to wipe his boots at the door, and her reproving gaze and angry chatter has them both shivering out of doors for their evening smoke. At first she is very shy, but soon she sits in Goodnight's hand when he’s reading the paper, looking for all the world as if she is reading it too. She likes it best when Goodnight reads the romantic serials out loud to her, then she wraps her tail around her tiny pink feet and polishes her whiskers in utter contentment. Unfortunately she chitters angrily at Billy if he fails to live up to her standards, which is often. He and Goodnight’s mouse don’t get along too well. It’s like living with a disapproving mother-in-law.

In spite of this Billy sleeps better at night, feeling safe instead of confided, inside of the four walls of the cabin, dipping into black dreamless sleep, deep as a well every night. The first time he woke with his arm flung around Goody he was embarrassed and perplexed. He had no history of sleepwalking and he’s used to sleeping in a communal space, sleeping politely on his side and not move. Sleeping alone it a bed was a rare luxury and Billy is used to taking up as little space as possible, remaining aware of other people even in his sleep. He’s not one for accidentally reaching out at night, but something about all of this seems to turn him on his head, seems to make his body react as if he actually has a home, instead of just a temporary place to rest his head.

If Billy is used to minding the space he occupies even in his sleep, Goodnight, on the other hand, sleeps like a man accustomed to sleeping with a sweetheart. He’s soft, rolled close to his companion, he makes small placating noises whenever Billy stirs, sleepily trying to shush him back into sleep. He never goes so far as to throw and arm or a leg over Billy but sometimes his hands catches Billy’s limbs and clings, soothes and pets his arms and chest. He snuffles close, rubbing his nose onto the pillow and makes huffy little noises. It is strange and endearing.

Of the two of them Billy usually wakes up first, before the sun rises. He blinks and finds Goody much closer than he’s ever been before, forehead resting against Billy’s naked shoulder. Billy nudges himself closer, just a little, little bit. Feels Goody’s breath like a warm puff on his skin. If he rolled onto his side now they’d be curled into each other, chest to chest like lovers, Goody’s wet mouth would be on his shoulder. Billy has gotten so far as to lift himself onto his side, face curved towards Goody when he spots Goody’s mouse watching him from the window sill. It is looking _very_ reproachful. If it was a human it would have crossed its arms and have one foot tapping. As it is the mouse merely tilts its head and strokes its whiskers with the distinct implication that he ought to be ashamed of himself.

Billy sighs and flops onto his back. He can’t believe it Goody has a mouse chaperone. 

Which absolutely has him cowed.

Not that he exactly is after anything that would require one, it’s just that Goody is so pleasantly warm, and smells sort of good, and he’s handsome with his crooked teeth and generous mouth and his hands are strong and calloused and would feel good against Billy’s skin. And now that he considers it maybe Goodnight does need a chaperone, just a little. He sighs as his body stirs eagerly at the idea, his blood running south, quick and hot at the thought of how it might be, crowding close, with Goody’s strong, rough hands stroking over his hips, fingers digging into his ass… He sighs again and turns his face to the wall and his back to Goodnight, trying to shield himself from the prim mouse. If it dislikes muddy boots, it’s absolutely not going to like his present condition.

Embarrassing emotions aside, Billy sleeps easier as February goes on, but Goodnight starts to have more and more nightmares. He tosses and turns uneasily in the bed, and sometimes Billy can soothe him back into restful sleep by stroking his shoulder and sometimes he wakes up gasping and stumbles out of the cabin to sit on the front step until dawn turns the sky pink. The bed feels scratchy and cold when Goody’s not in it, and contact seems to soothe him so Billy finds himself more often than not waking up with an arm around him and their legs tangled. Its cosy and he wishes he could press closer, kiss Goody’s neck right below his ear and breathe him in, but he never does, instead rolls away and tries to ignore Goody’s sleepy whine of protest or how he gets more and more restless without the contact.

Enid’s hoof is healing, the crack slowly growing out and every fortnight Billy rides Claire de Lune to town with Enid on a lead rope and gets the farrier to look at it. The abscess is long since healed and the crack is slowly growing out, and hopefully they’ll be able to ride out soon. Billy thinks he will miss their cabin but he can’t help but notice how Goody’s eyes track the horizon after a restless night and he hopes it will help to be on the move again. He thinks he might miss sleeping next to Goody the most, and wonders if it would be dishonest to suggest that they keep up the practice, as a means of saving money, and not because he wants it so badly. Sleeping next to Goodnight and waking up, sometimes with their legs entwined and an arm thrown over him has grown to be Billy’s favourite kind of torture. It’s everything he wants right there, almost in his arms, but at the same time so incredibly far away. He dreams about brushing his lips over Goodnight’s warm shoulder, and kissing the corners of his eyes and pulling the covers up, rolling close to Goody and give that damn mouse something to complain about.

March comes with the first sunny afternoons when the sun really feels like it could warm a body up. They are starting to prepare to break up from the cabin. Billy hunts and they prepare strips of jerky and mend any equipment that needs it. Goody takes to exercising Claire de Lune, and Enid can now carry load for short stretches at the time. Spring is in the air and all of Goody’s birds seems to feel it too if all that chirping and courting is anything to go by.

Billy is hauling water from the well, Saturday being bath day, when a large black bird drops a stick in front of him. He doesn’t really think that much of it (it’s a bird after all, they must drop sticks everywhere?) until the next day when something bounces off the brim of his hat and lands in front of his boots. It’s a smooth pebble, which shines when the sun catches is and Billy bends to pick it up. Looking up, he can see the same sort of black bird sitting in the tree next to him. Its feathers shimmers green in the sunlight and Billy has the odd feeling that the bird is making eye contact with him. It flutters up and along to another tree, all the while maintaining its head cocked towards Billy making sure he ambles after it, until it alights on the ground and walks up to Goodnight, with an air of studied casualness. Goodnight, standing outside having a smoke, gave them a curious look, even more so when the bird twitched its head Goodnight meaningfully.

Billy stared down at the pebble in his hand, a bird wanted him to give Goodnight a pebble. The mind boggled.

After this Billy was presented with sticks, sticks wrapped in grass, shiny pebbles, interesting pebbles, beetles, a one cent coin,more pebbles and finally one of Goodnights fleur-de-lis lapel pins. When he did give that back to Goodnight the birds became completely besides themselves and Billy found himself fastening the pin back to Goody’s waistcoat in a cacophony of sound and he hoped his face wasn’t heating up. His hands felt clumsier than they ever had and he wasn’t sure why they wouldn’t cooperate in this relative simple task. Goodnight was so close he could see the colorless sweep of his lashes, and how his embarrassed smile clung to the corners of his mouth and his breath was sweet on Billy’s face.

“There now, am I fit for company? Don’t know how the damn thing fell out,could have sworn I had it this morning.”

“You’re very handsome,” Billy told him absently when he was done and patted the collar down and then blushed red hot when his brain caught up with his mouth. Goody also blushed and looked away, and Billy bites his tongue so hard the pain blossomed like a bright star. Of all the stupid things to say.

He puts up with being presented with random objects but puts his foot down when a bluejay carefully tries to work feathers into his hair.He does not need to adorn himself to attract interest from a mate. He is studiously ignoring that the birds seem to be encouraging courting behaviour towards Goodnight. If his infatuation is so bad birds are picking up on it surely the only thing keeping Goody from commenting is delicacy and a wish to spare Billy the humiliation.

Goody’s mouse has no such compunctions and never hesitates to show how she feels about Billy. She seems to take delight in climbing up Goody’s arm and nestle into his neck, just under his chin, until Goody lifts her in both hands and kisses her and nuzzles her and make a fuss over her, telling her all manner of nonsense, turning his back on Billy. If asked Billy would strenuously deny being jealous of a mouse. If Billy leans over Goody’s shoulder when they are pouring over maps, she’ll squeak sharply at him until he backs off, Goody usually cradling her protectively against his chest, and petting her head with his index finger, making excuses for her.

“She is very sensitive about space you know,” he’d say with a helpless glance at Billy before taking them to the other end of the room, to soothe her in peace. Billy is not sure but he thinks there is definitely a triumphant cast to her ears at those times.

They had planned on leaving by the beginning of March but a wet deluge and high winds makes them postpone it. No use going out there and cracking the hoof in the wet and cold all over again. 

Then one morning Billy wakes up to silence, the wind no longer wailing against the nooks and crannies of the house. Light is coming in through the greased hides over the windows and the bed is empty. Sitting up he can smell coffee and see Goody sitting in the open door, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. He looks like he's in deep conversation with a prairie hen. 

“Naw, I think you’re quite mistaken there. Humans don't think like that,” he says the hen makes a chortling sound, it sounds very maternal. 

“Thank you for saying so, though it's not really our nest, we’re just...borrowing it for a little while, and I certainly haven't feathered it for him…” The hen interrupts with a series of decisive clucks

“I'm not sure worms would help, or clarify anything,” Goody sighs, sounding despondent. “But thank you for the suggestion.”

“Why are you talking to our dinner?” Billy asks and Goody jumps and spills his coffee over the side of the porch. The prairie hen takes off with a loud squawk.

“_Merde_, Billy!” he swears and wipes the coffee away with his hand. “You're as silent as a cat and twice as terrifying.”

Billy sits down next to him and Goody wordlessly hands him the half full cup as he lights a cigarette and for a while they sit in companionable silence swapping around. Billy don't know why, but Goody makes better coffee. He can't see that he does anything different yet somehow it always tastes better. Goody is in his shirtsleeves and his feet are white and bare. They are slim and long, with crooked toes. Everything about Goody is a little crooked, his teeth, his smile, his posture and Billy likes that. It's fitting that his toes are crooked too. He bumps his shoulder gently against Goody’s, who bumps back and without really knowing how it has happened his hand is resting on top of Goody’s, on the step between them, their fingers almost entangling. Goody is watching the morning sky, almost studiously nonchalant when he leans further into Billy until they are pressed up shoulder to shoulder. Billy’s heart is kicking wildly in his chest as he extends his free hand for the cigarette and Goodnight sends him a long sideways glance before tipping his head back and breathing the smoke out, bypassing Billy’s hand in favour of placing it in his mouth, thumb brushing slowly, deliberately over Billy’s lower lip, holding his gaze.

A sharp stinging pain in the meat of Billy’s hand makes him spring to his feet and drop the glowing cigarette onto his trousers, having to smack it away and step on it before the grass catches.

“She bit me!” he says angrily, pointing at the mouse, which is sitting on Goodnight's hand (the hand Billy had, very smoothly thank you very much, been working up the courage to hold) and her posture says very much that she is prepared to fight him for it.

“Tch, she would never!” Goodnight denies, scooping her up and placing her in her customary place in his breast pocket. “It must have been a splinter or something.” 

Goodnight might say what he might but the bright red drop of blood on Billy’s hand and the distinctly smug air of the mouse tells another story. The mouse absolutely does not approve of Billy’s crush. Billy is not so sure he approves either.

The sun comes out midday and paints everything in fresh colors, just like nature has thrown off a thin veil and revealed herself, both the brilliant blue of the sky and the dun colors of the leafless thickets down by the stream. Billy thinks that metaphor must have come from Goodnight because six months ago he was much too practical to pay any attention to the aesthetics of his surroundings. 

Settled life and good companionship must have dulled an edge he wasn’t even aware of because the two riders are nearly up to the house before he spots them. He’s outside, in his shirtsleeves cleaning his saddle, hands slippery to the elbow with saddle soap when the men ride in. His knife belt is hooked on the back of a chair in the cabin, and even if he always has at least three knives on him, its still a stupid mistake to make. He’s up on his feet and has a blade in the palm of his hand before they have even stopped but he knows they have the drop on him and the knife is slippery in his wet and sudsy hand.

“Jungsoo Park?” one of the men asks. His pale duster is travel stained and his face is weathered under the brim of his hat and Billy knows he can’t say anything, there is only one type of man that would ask for him by that name out here. 

“No sudden movements now, boy,” the other one drawls, hands on his guns and at this short range it would take a poor marksman to miss. His bounty says dead or alive and he knows these two fellas are not going to be too particular with which, even if a corpse smells you can lash it at the back of your horse and it doesn’t need rations. In short order, Billy is fucked.

He is slowly getting to his feet and approaching the men, both stalling for time and for a chance at a better throw with the knife when the foremost man wheels his horse around and kicks him in the face. The heel of his boot connects with Billy’s temple and he goes down, limp as a ragdoll, feeling the knife slip from his fingers as he falls. There is the loud crack of gunfire as he hits the ground, the impact knocking the wind out of him and he thinks at first that’s why he can’t feel the pain, and as the body of the man slowly slides off his horse he realizes its because _he_ hasn’t been shot. He sees Goodnight at the door of the cabin, his fox-like face white as chalk but his eyes narrowed in concentration, cooly lining up the second shot and almost clinically taking out the second man, the one who kicked Billy in the face. He falls with a shot in his forehead, as neat as a pinprick.

He rolled upright, the ground feeling unsteady under his feet and his head too light for his body. Goody was still standing at the door of the cabin, rifle raised to his shoulder, cheek tilted against the stock. The muzzle is trained on Billy but he didn’t fire and Billy could see the tremors in his shoulders.

“Goodnight?” he asked cautiously but with no reply.

“Goody, you want to hand me that rifle?”

There was still no response but Billy could see the trembling growing worse and as he slowly, slowly advanced, looking down at that empty opening, every second expecting it to explode. If this is the end,he thought, to be shot by my only friend in this country because he doesn’t know what he’s doing, what a fucking stupid way to go. The barrel of the rifle is trembling when he laid a hand on it and gently pushed it aside, taking it out of Goody’s unresisting hands. He feels so tired, like he’s been running for miles and he doesn't think twice about resetting the safety and putting the rifle to the side and walking into Goody’s arms like a man wading into the ocean.

Goody hugs him back tightly and then makes a noise in the back of his throat before pushing him away and hurrying through the door to vomit against the side of the cabin. Billy doesn’t say anything, just leans against the door and hands him his handkerchief when he’s done to wipe his mouth. 

They bury the men in two shallow graves a couple of miles from the cabin. Goodnight is quiet the whole time, his mouth a thin line, and he drinks heavily from his flask. As they leave big black vultures start to descend in lazy spirals, like huge flakes of soot from the sky.

Their papers declare the men to have been Douglas McKinnon and Burt Whyte, licensed bounty hunters in Texas and Nevada, they have Billy’s old warrant and a telegram from the NPR confirming that it’s still active. Dead men tell no tales and there is no knowing how they found them or how long they have been tracking Billy but Goodnight insist that they came west, after a tip in a larger settlement. He can’t exactly explain why he’s insisting but he does. Billy hopes they just got lucky with a hunch.

They release the two extra horses, who toss their heads and take off, rather than amble around or try to follow them, and head back to the cabin, Billy with an uncomfortable itch between his shoulder blades. He’s never seen Goody shot anything he can’t eat or a painted target before. Never seen a trace of that stone cold sharpshooter everyone is so damned delighted to meet. Until now, the accuracy of those shots and the speed, the lack of hesitation. Goody avoids his eyes and rides with his shoulders hunched.

“Goody...” he starts but lets the rest trail uncertainly, as Goody tips his head back and drains his flask in one long pull. He turns his head and meets Billy’s eyes head on.

“I’d do it again,” he says. “If somebody else would come for your bounty I’d do it again and not be too sorry about it. I know all life should be equal but somehow I can’t square that. Nobody could convince me you ain’t worth more than those two.”

Billy is stunned speechless, never too good with words anyway and Goody kicks his horse into a trot to get ahead of him on the path.

Everything in their little house is ready for travel. Their gear is repaired and the saddlebags stowed with hardtack, pea flour and jerky. Goody has been to town to replenish their store of coffee and ammunition, and still they delay. Something hangs in the air, and it makes Billy feel uneasy. It’s going to be a moonless night and when the sun sets among a host of ominous clouds he prepares for a stormy night but what comes instead is a silent and impenetrable darkness. Most nights the stars hang large enough to provide a faint glow, or sometimes even light up the sky with flowing rivers of light; if the moon is out it sometimes becomes so bright Goody hangs sackcloth over their windows and hides his head under the pillow but tonight the darkness comes like it’s full of soot and settles on everything. It makes Billy think of stories about volcano eruptions where ash from the sky have silently choked entire villages to death in their beds. Not a star, not a winking campfire can be seen, and its hushed, the empty silence of new snow, no wind stirring and no animals calling. Its eerie and it makes the skin crawl on Billy’s neck.

Goody goes out to see to the horses and the little light from his lantern is snuffed out almost immediately and Billy stares out into the darkness without seeing anything and in the end opens the door out towards the blackness, hoping that the light will guide Goody home. When he finally clatters in he is pale and Billy feels nearly sick with relief to see him and before he even considers it, wraps his arms around Goody to hug him.

“I was scared you got lost,” he says, reassured that it is Goody and not some pale ghost brought on by the strange night.

“Tell it truthful I was a little scared myself,” Goodnight answers, his hand squeezing over Billy’s neck, “I’m glad you left the door open _chér_, its darker than the insides of a coal miner out there.”

“_Chér_?” Billy asks mystified and Goody coughs as he lets Billy go, suddenly looking a little pink.

“It’s a, uh, nothing really. Old habit,” he says, sounding uncomfortable and they are interrupted by the mouse chittering angrily from the table before Billy can ask anything else, and Goody closes the door, shutting the darkness out. 

They play cards for a while but Billy finds himself strangely tired, barely able to keep his eyes open and the light from their lamp is faint, so faint he can hardly make out the faces on the cards and before long he excuses himself and stumbles off to bed. He surfaces when Goody comes to bed. He sees him blow out their candle and all of a sudden the darkness is there with them, inside the cabin, soft like a cat and all encompassing. When Goody crawls into bed next to him Billy can’t even pretend anymore but reaches for him until their hands are clasped, and it’s only then that Billy’s eyes can adjust and he can start making out the familiar silhouettes of their cabin. He falls asleep quickly, shuffled close to Goody, one hand curled securely around his arm.

A sharp crack wakes him and for a second he’s convinced that its gunfire, that they have been found out, and then the cabin is illuminated in the white flash of lightning and thunder rolls so heavy overhead that it makes Billy’s teeth rattle. He reaches for Goody but the other side of the bed is cold and in the next white-out he can’t see him anywhere.

“Goody?” he calls but there is no answer, only a clap of thunder so loud Billy for a second believes himself struck down. He fumbles the matches and manages to get the candle lit on the third attempt, the cabin is empty and the door swinging open.

The night outside is not so black as it was, there is a freshening wind and the sky has become a slightly lighter grey, enough for Billy to make out the outline of the shed for the horses, and the hills in the distance.

Where is Goody?

“Goodnight?” he yells but there is no answer except for the rising wind and the candle flickers dangerously, the lantern is set at the table and Billy lights it with shaking hands and mounting panic. The cabin is empty and there is no trace of Goody, his boots still by the door, his shirt over the chair. He's tethering by the door unsure where to go, to the stables? Maybe Goody went there to check on the horses? Or is he somewhere else, defenseless under the thundering sky? As he stands in the doorway something skitters past his bare feet, more a draft than a movement and then a barely perceptible shake in the grass towards the river, it's Goody’s mouse running and Billy doesn't hesitate, but runs into the darkness as fast as his feet can carry him. 

It's dark as pitch in the river canyon, whatever light coming from the sky is shut out by the trees. They are swaying in the wind, rubbing their branches together with a creaking moaning sound like a person wringing their hands in despair.

“Goody?” Billy shouts but there is only the terrible noise of the trees. He runs down towards the river, stopping by the water’s edge and looking around. The small light from the lantern bounces off trees and stones and no sign of Goody anywhere. 

“Goodnight!” he cries and finally, there's an answer. A thin, wailing cry which ends in a piercing shriek and Billy runs headlong towards it. It doesn't sound human and if Billy could think about anything but finding Goody he’d be terrified. 

Goodnight is on the ground, kneeling in front of a tree and Billy is almost at his side when he stops at the last second. He has a feeling of impending danger, than one false move could set it off. In the light of the lantern something in the tree glitters. 

It's eyes, dozens and dozens of eyes and in the flash that comes Billy sees the whole tree full of owls. They are packed on the branches, hopping restlessly and rustling their wings. They have white, round faces, eyes black like lost souls, and there is something terrifying about their stillness, their waiting is pinning Goodnight to the ground, like a prisoner awaiting condemnation. There is one owl, with white feathers like a bad omen, it screams and all the owls scream, and it swoops from the tree, cruel talons stretched and sweeps by Goodnight, scratching his hair, clawing his face blood springing red on his cheeks. And,as if signalled they are all upon him, and he’s hidden by a snowfall of beating wings, of pecking beaks and razor-like talons. Billy stands transfixed at the grisly sight, unable to move, to do anything. 

Rescue comes from an unexpected direction. Billy feels something something bounce off his foot and the small brown mouse barrels past with an angry high-pitched squeak, as intent on protecting Goody as a bear with her cubs threatened. The sight of her tiny brave charge loosens his own chains and Billy can finally run to Goody and swinging the lantern wildly to chase the eerie birds away. They flutter and shriek and scratch him if they can, and for one moment he is swamped, his hands fumbling through a cloud of feathers and claws when the lantern’s wide arc catches a bird squarely in the chest, and the spilling oil causing it to burst into flames. It screams, like a human, like a woman in pain, and hangs like a cloud of fire in the black air before tumbling to the ground the birds spiralling and scattering around them.

They stand looking at each other, blood running down Goody’s face and then out of the darkness a wail comes at them. A pair of wings, massive and white as the driven snow unfurls and an owl sweeps down at them, with such an anguished cry Billy's blood freezes like ice in his veins and all he can do is watch helpless as the owl sweeps down towards Goodnight, the talons stretched out at the wings beating without a sound, the claws razing him from temple to ear. The blood bursting and running scarlet over Goody’s face. 

With another horrible scream, filled with pain and unspeakable wrath the owl circled again and this time it dropped something which landed with a soft noise at Goody's feet before it disappeared and Billy hardly knowing what he was doing threw his arms around Goodnight, holding him tight and safe.

“I heard the voice, Billy” Goodnight says, his whole frame shaking. “I heard it before and I ignored it and now it's come for me and it ain't nothing I can do.”

Billy just tries to hush him, hand stroking over the back of his head and neck.

“The owls they spoke to me, they said, they said...”Goody's voice breaks off in a sob and Billy finds that what comes out of his mouth is his native language, his mother’s tongue, and not this cold hard language of strangers. He realizes he doesn't know any words of comfort and solace in English, and even his mother’s words dry up soon enough and all he's left with is pressing his mouth to Goody's skin to make him understand, kiss his bloodied lips and fit their bodies together, express in the tender press of mouth and tongue how much he loves him and to what lengths he'll go to protect him. It feels so natural that it doesn't even register when Goody kisses him back, he curls his strong hands in Billy's collar and kisses him, and a part of Billy feels dizzy, feels emotions slot into place from as far back as Goodnight’s wet mouth in the saloon, where he gifted a kitten to a girl afraid of rats.

When they separate the corner of Billy’s mouth is tacky from Goody's blood, and meeting his eyes they are large and lost. 

“I heard the voice, Billy.” he says, sounding stunned. “I heard the owl speaking to me…” Billy shakes his head.

“Stop it,” he says. “Owls don’t talk, you had a bad dream and the thunder spooked you, that’s all.”

Goodnights eyes comes over to rest at his face and Billy feels a tiny tendril of connection, the faint chance of pulling Goodnight back before he becomes lost to the vast, endless ocean.

“It was a bad dream, it can’t hurt you,” he says and Goody nods, uncertainly.

“I heard…” he says, trailing off.

“It was the thunder, “ Billy promises, desperate for Goody to believe him, for it to be the truth. Billy is not sure what he has seen but believing in Goodnight's version of events, no he can’t do that, the meaning of it like a yawning chasm in the dark.

“You were walking in your sleep, you spooked the birds and they scratched your face, that’s it,” he assures him, already feeling the ground becoming more firm under his feet, and Goody nods again, faint and reluctant comprehension across his features.

“I was dreaming?”

“Yeah,” Billy insists, “Dreams can feel like that sometimes.”

He let go reluctantly and Goody’s eyes drops to the forest floor, to his bloodied feet and he makes a noise, a small, soft noise like something mortally wounded.

Between his feet is the body of Goodnight's mouse, the white silky belly cut open and disemboweled,the guts spilling out from the body like red glistening jewels from an open purse and its bright black eyes dull and empty. 

Goodnight lifts her up with shaking hands and the noise he makes is desperate and abandoned, and Billy leads him back to the house, hunched over his hands, feeling himself ice cold to his very soul.

Epilogue:

They leave the cabin quietly the next day, Goodnight silent and hunched over his saddle like his heart was scooped out of his body. It’s only after three days, when his eyes starts tracking things which are actually there, he tells Billy his story. 

“My great-grand _Maman_, she was, well, the technicality doesn’t matter now but as I understood it, she was a Princess. It was only over a smaller principality, probably not even as large as a dime, but her formal title was princess. This was before the whole revolution of course, and when she came to Louisiana she had nothing more than a poor dress and good manners but the title, even worthless was carried on, and my grandmother and my _Maman_, well they were princesses too.”

Billy has wrapped Goody in two blankets and he’s sitting with his eyes lost to the fire, but still it calms Billy to see him retrieve even as much as a fraction of his old self. 

“And everyone said my mother was always a right funny sort, even if she was kind. So when I was little, she always said that if she had a daughter she’d be a princess too but she never had and therefore I’d have to do. An’ I always took that for her little joke until I got a bit older. You can never imagine what it was like, I sprouted chest hair and suddenly I could talk to the family cat!”

Billy sighs, he can’t relate to either thing.

“Nobody can talk to animals Goody,” he says patiently and Goody meets his eyes head on.

“I heard the voice,” he says seriously.

“Goody…” he tries but Goodnight insists.

“Billy, I heard it,” he repeats with steadfast conviction. “If I pull that trigger again in violence I’ll die a ghastly death,” he says and Billy can see he believes it, feels Goody’s hand on his shoulder hard and desperate for him to listen.

“They’re just dreams Goody,” he says and tries to infuse his voice with as much calm and rationality as he can. Because it’s true nobody can talk to animals,even if he can remember them by the riverbank and the birds singing as if they were trying to talk to him, but at the same time if he admits this then Goody will be right and his days numbered by a ghastly specter on silent wings with yellow eyes and Billy won’t, can’t give him up.

There is a big world out there and Billy is better with knives than any person he’s ever met but he knows he can’t make any promises, and admitting to Goody that he believes him feels like a step he can’t take, won’t believe them haunted by that, and saying he doesn’t believe him feels like too much of a betrayal. Instead he holds on to that little scrap of reality and pulls Goody in. Kisses him soft and easy and soothes him, strokes his furrowed brow, and enjoys how Goody kisses back.

“All right,” he murmurs, “we’ll work it out.”

And somehow they do. It isn’t until far later when Goodnight gets a hold of a book of European fairy tales certain things start making sense to Billy. There will always be bunnies, and abandoned baby birds (and sometimes chameleons, but Billy puts his foot down at spiders and skunks) and if ever Goodnight found three troll’s heads in the brook when fetching water he probably would comb, and wash and kiss them so gold rings would fall out of his mouth when he talked. It wouldn’t surprise Billy at all. Or if an old lady gave him an enchanted ball of yarn to lead him to the mountain at the end of the world. He probably would have cottoned on a lot faster if there had been foxes or cranes or any sort of sensible animal involved, even a golden lotus would have helped. He finds out that its customary in these sorts of tales to live happily ever after and in between the bad days, the gunfights, the shakes and both of their nightmares, he believes they do.

**Author's Note:**

> All the songs mentioned, Brown Jug, Tennessee Stud and On the Good Ship Venus, are real songs, they are not contemporary to the period but they do exist. I guess the question is if Goodnight, genteel southern gentleman would be singing dirty songs but I figure he was also in the army, and besides it amused me.
> 
> The fairy tales referenced in the epilogue is the Bush Bride, a Norwegian Fairy tale collected by Amjbörnsen and Moe (the three troll's head in a brook), a Swedish tale called Prince Hat under the Ground, or its Norwegian and more famous counterpart East of the Sun West of the Moon, again collected by Ambjörnsen and Moe, the Swedish version collected by Hyltén-Cavallius and Stephens (the ball of yarn leading to the mountain at the end of the earth), the golden lotus is from a Korean story called Kongjiwi and Patjiwi.
> 
> The title is from Disney's Snow White.


End file.
